Strictly Professional
by China Dolly
Summary: He'd let Phil down. The other – his handler, his friend, his lover – had put his trust in him, laid his life in his hands, and Clint had let him down. Warning: slash


**Note**: My first Avengers fanfiction! Hope everyone likes it.  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of the characters.

It was dark outside, night having fallen hours ago and every bit of light from the moon and the stars was blocked by a thick blanket of clouds. Fat raindrops fell down to earth in a continues steam and occasionally the sky and earth beneath would lit up because of a flash of lightening, a loud and roaring thunder followed not long after.

The raindrops that dripped down from his strands of hair, slipped over his skin and soaked his suit didn't disturb him, though. He was used to this. Sitting, waiting, taking in everything that happened around him and ready to shoot immediately and without hesitance.

Inside, beneath the roof he sat perched upon, his handler was sleeping, which he had all right to. The day had been long and tough and in the end Phil – not Coulson, not anymore, not after Canada – had ended up getting shot in the shoulder. It had been his fault. He hadn't been paying attention for a few seconds and in that short time span, it had happened. And while Phil could easily kill someone with a toothpick if he wanted to, he was merely human and thus unable to stop a bullet with a blink of an eye.

He sighed to himself, tightening his grip on his bow and his eyes hardened slightly. He'd let Phil down. The other – his handler, his friend, his _lover_ – had put his trust in him, laid his life in his hands, and Clint had let him down. He was lucky in a way, because if the bullet hadn't hit Phil's shoulder but his heart instead, he was sure he would've died right with him.

But, thank God, it hadn't gone like that. After contacting S.H.I.E.L.D. – as professional as ever, refusing to let anyone else do his job even though he'd been shot – and arranging for a chopper to come pick them up in the morning, after the storm passed, Phil had showed him the way to the nearest safe-house. It had taken Clint a lot of willpower and patience to get Phil bandaged and into bed, even going as far as to promise to take care of the mission report because 'for fuck's sake, Phil, sleep!'.

With Phil in bed, he had fled to the roof under the cover of not wanting to let the other sleep without a guard. It was partly true. Phil was shot, limited in what he could do if they were attacked and anyone out for their lives would have to climb over Clint's dead body if they wanted to get to Phil. But mostly, Clint fled out of guilt, constantly wondering: 'what if…'

Suddenly, there was shuffling inside the small single-room cabin. A door opened and only seconds later, Phil's voice drifted up to the roof.

"Clint."

He didn't answer. It wasn't a question and Phil knew he was up there.

"I'm not the only one that needs sleep."

There was nothing he could say, not really. Phil was right. He just didn't want to go down, didn't want to see the other's hurt shoulder. So instead, he remained silent and still.

A soft sigh, and then: "Come off of that roof and get your ass into bed, agent."

Clint raised an eyebrow, lowering the bow, eyes still fixated on the wide open space before him. "Is that an order, Sir?"

"If you want me to make it one, then yes, yes Barton it is." Phil paused and then added: "I can, however, also get up there and drag you down myself."

Clint swore softly under his breath. Phil would do that for sure if his dead-on serious tone was anything to go by and Clint knew it was time to get down and face the music.

He got down from the roof, looked at Phil – who was watching him silently with knowing eyes – and then made his way into the cabin without a word.

Inside, he put aside his bow – as close to the bed as he knew Phil would allow – and then started removing his now soaked gear. This was going okay, he thought. Not talking was good, fine, he could deal with that.

Then, Phil was at his back.

His chest pressed softly – comfortably – against Clint's back, an arm slung loosely – comfortingly – around his waist and a set of soft lips were tenderly pressed against the nape of Clint's neck. "It's okay." Phil said, the soft tremor in his voice betraying his feelings.

_This is our job, get over it. I'm still here. It's not your fault. Stop blaming yourself. _

There were a lot of things Phil said with just those two words and Clint let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Yeah," Clint breathed eventually, with that one word agreeing to everything Phil said and – more importantly – all the things he hadn't said.

Phil chuckled softly, hot breath teasing Clint's skin, and mumbled: "Good," before stepping away and moving to the bed.

His guilt having dropped, the tension having left him, Clint turned to watch Phil, a smirk on his lips now, and stretched his arms. "What, no help?"

Phil sat down on the bed and watched his lover in amusement. "I think that will prove to be quite difficult with only one hand."

Clint chuckled, shook his head and muttered: "Getting up on the roof to drag me down, my ass."

"Well, yes." Phil stated, not even attempting to hide his smugness. "I did get your ass down from that roof. Now hurry and get it into the bed. Someone told me not too long ago I need some fucking sleep."

Clint only laughed and, after drying and getting dressed for bed, slipped under the covers with Phil.

He looked at the other's shoulder and sighed. "I'm sorry."

Phil rolled his eyes, leaned in to kiss Clint softly, tenderly and then he just holds Clint's hand, like it's going to break anytime soon. "Go to sleep."

And if he held Phil a bit closer that night than he usually did or if he stroked the other's cheek while he was asleep then so be it. The small smile on Phil's lips as he sleeps with his guard down – completely trusting Clint – is all he cares about anyway.


End file.
